With Love, James Moriarty
by IrishFrenchy
Summary: It's been three years since Red John was killed. As for Sherlock Holmes, it's been five years since the fall and he's been living back at 221b for a couple of years now. Things are bound to hit the fan, though. Patrick finds himself falling in love again, with The Ice Man no less, Sherlock gets injured, and a certain consult criminal reveals he's still alive. Pycroft and Johnlok
1. Vacations Are Great

Patrick Jane wasn't a very complicated man, not by any means, but he sure had his moments. Today was just one of those days… He been particularly finicky about, well, everything. Something was on his mind, that everyone knew, so they let him slide. It was, if anything, the right thing to do.

He twisted the coffee mug he held in his hand, looking at the symbol on the Styrofoam material. "Awful stuff," he concluded and made a face that was just short of a grimace. "Oh, stop complaining," came the teasing voice of Agent Lisbon. She smiled a little and patted his shoulder. "Just be glad we're back. I hated Las Vegas."

They had recently come back from a rather long case that had dragged over two states. Teresa had convinced him to go with her to catch the murderer. After a long chase and some scrapped knees, the two managed to catch him. Of course, he soon went into the custody of the Las Vegas police department. Back home, the group made some deals, cut some tough decisions, all to just get a Mr. Jonathan Stewart back into the hands of the CBI.

With a job well done, Teresa and Patrick spent the rest of the day applying Neosporin to some serious injuries while drinking mojitos on the back deck at their hotel.

It felt good to be back in California though, Patrick had to admit. However, today was the party crasher. On this day, five years ago, Red John had been caught. It turned out that he was the attorney general, the very same man who had contacted Patrick online and told him to keep up the good work. 'Why would he care?' Patrick had thought at the time. It made no sense. How perfect for it to have been him… He ran the CBI, and in any case, the man whose family he had murdered was his employee. The mere thought filled Patrick's heart with rage. All along, they had chased ghosts, gone on rabid goose chases, all for nothing. He'd been under their noses the entire time.

Patrick had finally laid that one to rest, and with it, his lovely wife and daughter. Still though, he couldn't move on. No one take his breath away how Angela had. It just would never be the same… Romance, as it would seem, would never find him again. And for the time being, that was quite alright with him.

He turned to Teresa and smiled. "I'm glad to be back, too." He fixed the sleeve on his blue button down, rolling it back up again. "Let's get out of here then," Teresa decided and tossed his suit jacket at him, a little laugh bubbling up from within her. "You betcha," he said as he caught it and jogged after her out of that greasy little café.

They walked to her car together, a comfortable silence filling the air around them. It was just the beginning of Autumn. Some trees were beginning to turn vibrant oranges, reds, and yellows. "Fall is my favorite time of year," Patrick said as he closed his door. His friend nodded in agreement as she started up the engine, listening to it as it roared to life. His Blackberry dinged, annoucing a new message. He pulled it from his pocket and smiled when he saw who it was from. "What's up?" Teresa asked, her eyes flickering to him and then back to the road, as she pulled out of the parking lot.

"It's from a good friend of mine. Nothing bad, don't worry." He clicked on the link to his email and opened the message.

_Jane,_

_Pat, man, I miss you. What's going on? It's been too sodding long. I miss hearing from you. I thought about you this morning, with it be being five years to the day of catching Red John and all. I hope all is well. Email me back whenever you get the chance. Things are finally starting to slow down around here, at the office, and I was wondering if you'd like to join my wife and I, and a couple of friends up at the cabin. Been a while since we've done that, huh, mate? Let me know what's up. Got a friend I'd love you to meet, his name's Sherlock Holmes. I've told you loads about him, just don't let those things stop you. Haha. You two are a like two peas in a pod, no joke there. _

_-Greg Lestrade _

Patrick laughed a little after reading the message. "Looks like I'm going to London," he said as he watched some cars go by. Teresa raised her eyebrows at that, but eventually she let a smile slip. "Is that so? I'm guessing that email was from Greg, then?" He nodded his head, blonde curls falling over his forehead a little. "Sure was. He invited me up to the cabin again. God, it's been almost two years. I think I'm gonna go."

He could have sworn a little frown met her lips but he might have just been seeing things. "Good, you need some time off. Go." She reached out and patted his shoulder, a smile tugging at her lips. "Okay," he answered, nodding his head. "You won't miss me too much?" he asked, flashing that handsome grin of his. She laughed and shook her head in response.

"Tell Molly I said hello, if you see her. I loved meeting her last time I went up with you. It's been too long since she and I got together." He smiled a little, remembering that fateful moment when the two had met. They immediately struck it off. Best friends. The two were inseparable and still get together, even now.

He pulled out his phone out, opening his email back up again. He thought about what to say as the cursor blinked a few times. Finally, he wrote back. His fingers stoked the keys quickly as he typed; his mind totally elsewhere. He probably looked like a dork. Agent Lisbon always reminded him of how dorky his concentration face was. He had a habit of nawing at his lips and pursing them and things like that. Thankfully, this time she didn't say anything.

_Greg, _

_Absolutely, my friend. I will take you up on that offer without a second thought. Just give me some dates so I know when. I've been good, thank you for asking. I should be asking you the same. How are things at the office? They must be good if it's all slowing down. I do very much want to meet this Mr. Holmes. Heard so much about him. Tell the wife I said hello and give me a call if you can, later on perhaps. I'll be out of work in a few hours._

_-Patrick Jane_


	2. Big Mistake

Not a month and two rough cases later, Patrick found himself on a 9 A.M. flight to Bromley, where he would take a train to London. The distance between the two towns was only twelve and a half miles, so he wasn't that worried about the train ride. After all, he'd taken that ride a million times. It was planes he hated…

It was a long morning, to say the least. He was very thankful he'd brought his iPod with him for the trip. An old woman next to him just wouldn't shut her trap. He honestly considered putting a napkin to her face and knocking her out. Finally, she fell asleep and all was well.

Upon arriving in the terminal of southeast London, he tried his best to ignore the jet lag and bought himself a coffee, then went to grab his bag. He hated the hustle and bustle of airports. There were too many people with their damn families. He could handle large crowds of people, but on his list of things to avoid, there was most certainly large groups of people that consisted of family members. "Annoying as hell," he concluded, finally stepping out of the doors of the airport. "Glad that's over."

He walked down the street to the Bromley North Railway Station. A lovely elderly fellow was outside, playing his saxophone. The notes were sweet to Patrick's ears and he couldn't help but stop and listen to him for a few. "Hope this make your day better, old man," Patrick said with a genuine smile as he slipped some cash into his hat. "Obliged," the man replied with a toothy smile and a nod of the head. His long black hair fell over his shoulders as he did so.

Once he was on the train he managed to find an empty seat, over near a kid who couldn't have been more than twenty years old. He had a guitar case and a pile of books with him. He reminded Patrick a lot of himself back in the old days, after he'd run away from the circus, and he smiled softly. With a deep breath, he began to walk over to his aisle.

"Hello," he said in greeting as he took a seat. The kid nodded a hello and fixed his glass. "Hey there. American?" he asked in a thick brag, his deep blue eyes meeting Patrick's. "Yes, yes I am. And you're Scottish?" The kid nodded excitedly and offered him his hand. "Damien's the name, don't wear it out." Patrick laughed gently and took his hand, giving it good shake. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Damien. I'm Patrick." He took in the kid's face, a very handsome face, with a beard, and those deep denim blue eyes. 'The ladies must love him,' he thought.

On the train ride they spoke of all sorts of things, anything from college, to their mutual music talent, to the deduction and observation skills Patrick so often used. It was an interesting ride, if anything. They ended up exchanging emails when they got off at the Central London Railway Station.

"Good luck at your gig tonight. I'm sure you'll do wonderful," Patrick told Damien in a light tone. He smiled brightly and threw his overnight bag over his shoulder. "Thanks, mate. Good to know you. Keep in touch, eh? We should jam together some time." Patrick nodded, struggling to hold his bag a little so he dropped it. "Will do, my friend. I'll send you an email later on this week. That sure would be wonderful. I'll be in town for a month, maybe longer."

When the two parted ways, he hailed a cab to take him to the closest bank that would exchange currency. The cabby nodded and drove off. "There's a currency office down the street a piece, no worries," the cabby told him over his shoulder as he turned a corner. "Alright," he replied and shook his head in understanding. "Thanks, I guess I'll go there." On the ride he'd taken off his jacket, unbuttoned his dark grey vest and rolled up his sleeves. He was always hot, even in the cold city of London, he found himself getting sweaty.

It took them about ten minutes to get there, and Patrick gave the man a nice tip. "Have a great day," the cabby told him and Patrick smiled. "You too, buddy." He threw his bag over his shoulder as he walked up the old brick steps to the bank. Little did he know, this was the worst decision he'd made yet.

As he pushed open the door to the bank, someone shouted at him. He looked up from his phone to see that he'd walked right into a god damned bank robbery.

"Get your bloody ass on the ground!" came the yell of a lanky looking man with a mask on. He pointed his gun at Patrick and the blonde consultant immediately dropped his bag, but much to his own amazement, managed to slipped his phone into his pocket before they could notice he'd had it on his person. "Okay," he said calmly and made to get on his knees and lay down. "I'm on the ground, see? Sorry to have… Interrupted."


	3. If It Weren't For Bad Luck

Time seemed to slow down and it made everything blur into one long nightmare. People were hurt and shots were fired. It all seemed to happen at once. There was nothing Patrick could do.

There were a total of three bank robbers. No, they weren't even that, they three men trying to pull off a flop heist. They were total amateurs, that much was obvious. A simple fact remained, however. If the police didn't show up quick, they were going to get away with it.

There soon came a time when he could take it no more. A lanky looking Spanish man, who seemed to be the younger of three, was left in the lobby to 'hold down the fort,' so speak, as they went to get into the vault. The secretary nearest him was an attractive woman, mid-thirties, blonde. He was hitting on her. 'Of all things,' Patrick thought to himself and gritted his teeth. She obviously said something he didn't like because he slapped her. Patrick watched as he fell to the ground, behind the desk and out of his line of sight. It was then that an idea hit him. "I must be crazy," he whispered to himself.

Something in the vault fell, crashing to the floor. The robber sighed with aggravation and pointed his gun around. In a thick accent he said, "If I come back and anything is out of place, if anyone is missing, I will kill you all without a second thought. Don't think I'm joking." He turned and stalked off, his work boots stomping loudly on the marble floor.

Patrick got to his feet, stumbling as he ran. His old dress shoes slid on the floors but he caught himself. He peeked over the reception desk to make sure the secretary was alright. She was just out cold by the looks of it. He sighed and hid under the desk as he pulled out his phone. He went to send a text message to his friend, Lestrade.

_Greg,_

_Come to Rochester Street._

_Bank Robbery._

_I'm stuck. People are hurt._

_Help._

_-Pat_

He was too preoccupied hiding his phone is his vest to notice a young man had gotten up. When he finally saw him, the shorter of the three bank robbers was coming back in and as it would seem, he noticed. Something about the way the kid was walking over to him was odd. His hands were up in a defensive manner but he was talking to the robber. It took a moment but Patrick finally understood. The kid was buying him time; he didn't know he'd already sent the text to Greg. Somehow, he knew Patrick was trying to get them all help.

The robber waved his gun in frustration, shouting something that sounded like Portuguese. His face was screwed into a worried and confused expression and sweat beaded down his tanned forehead and temples. His hands trembled in a way that made Patrick cringe. Everything about the situation was bad. Maybe that's why he wasn't all that surprised when the gun went off…

"Shit," he swore and rushed over as the kid fell back from the power of the shot. He groaned and tumbled to the floor, clutching his shoulder. Patrick fretted over him and swore again, his eye sight going blurry from tears. He turned as he got up, coming face to face with the assailant. He waved his gun frantically and stepped back, away from Patrick. He anticipated this move, of course, and took his chance. He aimed a punch at the man, biting his lip as he did so. His fist was so tight that his knuckles went white, and when he connected with the man's jaw, he went falling backwards. Patrick made quick work on kicking him while he was down, and he took the semi-automatic from his hands while he had the chance. "I. Hate. Guns!" His voice was filled with disgust and he gave the man one more good kick to let off some steam. He grumbled in pain and clutched at his bruising ribs.

The two other bank robbers were on their way back to see what the commotion was about, guns raised. Patrick swore up a storm as he helped up the younger man who had tried to help. He threw his arm over his shoulder and carried him over to the desk. Before he could really get behind it, though, the bullets began to fly. "Bastard," he said, shouting in pain as a bullet grazed him. He looked down at his side, a clear whole through his poor vest. Blood began to seep through his cotton button down and his knees buckled from the pain. The kid grabbed onto the desk to help them both move quicker. He wrapped his arm around Patrick's waist and ushered him to the wall so he could lean against it.

Patrick prayed to God that Greg got his text message as he turned around, ignoring his hatred for guns and firing back at the two assailants. Everyone in the room seemed the scatter like rats from a fire. The other innocent bystanders rushed for cover wherever they could find it.

"Are you alright?" Patrick shouted over the noise to the kid next to him. He was gripping his shoulder and blood seemed to be everywhere. "Name's Scott, and I'll survive. I hope your friend got that message or whatever it was that you sent!" He looked back over at Patrick and winced in pain. "We're a bit worse for wear right now, don't think we could take 'em on our own." Patrick actually laughed at that, the sound coming out hoarse and low. He fired another shot and it got one of the robbers in the leg. He felt good at having got a good shot in. The man was yelping in pain and probably clutching his thigh.

The firing seemed to go on forever.

Patrick only had five or six shots left in his clip when miraculously, he heard sirens over the all the commotion. He peeked over the desk and saw police lights flashing. "Thank God," he said and laughed a little out of sheer happiness. Scott laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "You… You deserve a god damned medal for all that. You know that? You could have died! Thanks for coming to get me, I've never been more grateful to someone." The two exchanged a heartfelt look and Patrick nodded. "No problem. You seem like a decent enough fellow."

A squad of armed agents came rushing into the currency office, shouting all sorts of orders. Patrick finally collapsed against the wall, his hand flying to his side. The pain was almost too much to handle.

"Get on the ground!" shouted one the officers and Patrick could hear guns fall. He tried to get up but it didn't work out so well. He gasped in pain and fell back down. "Easy, mate," Scott said, looking over at him with a sympathetic expression. "Help is on the way." He sighed with relief as he heard Greg's voice over everyone. "Make sure everyone's alright, EMT's are on the way. Lock these bastard's up. Holmes' is taking them to the FBR headquarters for questioning. Get this one off the bloody ground!"

"Just my fucking luck," Patrick said as he looked down at his hand. It was covered in blood from his bullet wound. "I come to London for a vacation and I still find trouble." Scott got on his knees so could get himself up. He cringed and got to his feet despite Patrick's warnings. "I know the feeling, trust me. If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."

"Over here," Scott said to some EMT's. He waved an arm to show people were behind the desk. The woman was just waking up, though she looked awful groggy. "Attend to this man first, he's worse off." Patrick gave Scott a grateful look as two medics began to attend to his side.


End file.
